Illusions
by SGCbearcub
Summary: Sometimes what we think, isn't always what we believe.


A/N – The second fanfiction I wrote and posted. I posted from Sharbot Lake just before Christmas 1998.

Title - "Illusions"  
Author - Wintersong  
E-Mail address - wintersong .ca

Rating - PG, profanity  
Category - V, 3POV  
Spoilers - Folie A Deux  
Keywords - none  
Summary - Truly seeing others is hard. Seeing ourselves is  
harder.  
Disclaimer: They belong to CC and 1013.

Notes: I discovered a vignette "Banging Your Head Against A  
Red-Haired Brick Wall" on Gossamer a year or so ago that I  
just loved. This is my attempt to do something similar with a  
Scully admirer. Hope you like it.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I suppose I was lucky.

I could have bought her a ring.

That was what I figured she wanted. It's what all women want  
isn't it? A commitment? And don't talk to me about divorce  
statistics, contributory negligence and partners being closer  
than married couples. I'm a cop. Seen it. Done it. Don't assume  
you know what you're talking about. Half those marriages  
were DOA due to late nights, missed birthdays and the fact that  
there are times when-if you can't talk about the case-you  
haven't got shit to talk about. Ask any cop.

You think I'd tell a wife or girlfriend I got shot at? I mean holy  
shit! The damn bullet missed, all right? Yippee, now pass the  
beer. You think we don't know when it's close? But we can't  
afford to think like that. So we'll drink the beer too fast, talk  
too loud and punch someone who didn't deserve it. But we do  
it with people who know the rules. No pulling shit like that  
with the family.

It scares them.

So I figured I'd found the perfect woman. FBI ,right? I mean  
how many times does a fed get shot at? Okay - so the gang and  
drug guys get shot at. But it's not like she'd be a fellow  
detective standing in the line of fire. The feds are the brains of  
the operation. If we ever got assigned a case together she'd  
probably be my boss. Hey, I'm enlightened . I can handle that.  
She figures out who the bad guys are and I go knock 'em  
down. Sounds good to me.

She's a cop. Sorta. So I wouldn't even have to watch what I  
say. I'm not talking about the classified stuff, here. I'm talking  
the stuff that pops out when you're not thinking about it. The  
real reason you talk to your partner more than your wife.

I told a girlfriend once about this guy's life I saved. I mean I  
was pumped. I'd been a freaking damn hero and man! I was  
high on it. The kid had come out on the losing end of a knife  
fight and his intestines were pushing out of his body like  
snakes from one of those pop-up cans. You ever had a tape  
measure uncoil on you? You know, where the loops just keep  
spooling out under pressure and every time you grab one,  
another rockets off until you've got one big tangled mess and  
no clue how to get it all back in that tiny little case. Now you  
get the picture. I was literally holding his life in my hands until  
the paramedics got there.

Only I forgot that I was eating spaghetti while I was telling her  
all this. It was an hour before she came out of the bathroom.

And they say they want us to communicate more.

So here I was, mentally putting her on my insurance plan  
before I even asked her out. I should have realized something  
was wrong when Sweeney just shook his head and said, "Be  
careful, man."

Normally Sweeney's as happy for me as I am when I find  
someone. Hell, between the two of us we've had our share of  
bad relationships, but that doesn't stop us from hoping for the  
best for each other. Sometimes you choose your partner over  
your family - but you never choose a partner instead of one.  
It's just...sometimes you need not to be needed. It's not that  
you want to be alone...you just don't have the energy to be  
anyone for someone else at that particular moment.

Family needs you to be someone. They need you to be a  
husband or a lover or a dad. They deserve it. And the hours and  
missed time together means that when they do get a hold of  
you, they need that much more. I don't blame them for wanting  
it. I don't blame them for resenting it when it all gets to be too  
much and you retreat to the safety of your partner's living  
room. But blame the job, man...not the partner. He's just  
picking up the pieces.

So I just thought Sweeney was worried about the fact that she  
had a partner. I should have known better.

My grandfather used to say a cop has two wives. The mother of  
his children and the job. Only he'd say it like it was enshrined  
in capital letters. The Job. Grandma would laugh as she said  
that cops' wives didn't marry men, they married the force.  
Except her smile never reached her eyes. And she wasn't  
joking.

But that's how it worked for them. Maybe it would have  
worked for my parents, but she walked out when I was two and  
Dad died in the line of fire three years later. His picture hangs  
in a place of honor in my grandparents house. I don't  
remember what she looks like. I just know she couldn't cut it  
as a cop's wife, and in this family, when we bleed, we bleed  
blue.

So now we are back to the perfect woman. She's beautiful,  
she's law enforcement and she's Irish Catholic to boot. But the  
problem isn't that she has a partner. The problem is that she is  
his partner. Capital "P". And for the first time, I'm beginning  
to think about what that means.

I don't know what the rules are anymore. Maybe none of us  
ever did.

It's not something I ever had to think about. It was just  
something I always knew. Something that got absorbed along  
with every other rule of my life. Don't touch a hot stove, never  
tell a lie and always , always be there when your partner calls.  
Granddad didn't even like his last partner. Called him a sallow  
faced rookie without the brains God gave a magpie. But  
Grandma kept a six-pack of his favorite beer in the fridge and  
the night of my high school graduation, Granddad was on a  
stakeout with his partner.

That's just the way it is.

Believe it or not, I even understood. Sure, there were times I  
wished he could have been there, but there are sacrifices that  
have to be made and it's not always the cop who has to make  
them. I was proud to do it. It was my duty. You think I'd be a  
cop now if I didn't believe that?

But I've had to do some real hard thinking about my  
definitions lately. Duty, partner...cop. All because of her. It's  
damn funny when you think about it. Never thought a split-  
tailed FBI navy brat with a nutcase for a partner could have  
taught me anything about being a cop. With my background?  
You're kidding, right?

But she did. I can even talk about it. I just won't do it when I'm  
drinking.

The District is one fucked up place to be a cop. If this wasn't  
home, I'd be giving serious consideration to transferring to  
New York or Miami. It's safer. And between you, me and the  
Review Board, it's not the criminals I worry about. I'd trust  
Sweeney with my woman, my credit cards and the last bullet  
in my gun. The other cops ... I'm not always so sure about.

So I recognized that look in her eyes when I saw it. I've been  
seeing it in the mirror a lot lately. The one that said at one time  
she had honestly believed that we were all on the same side.  
That sick sense of betrayal as you recognize that pissing on  
your shoes is more important to the uniform you're staring at  
than your partner's life.

We didn't get any of the home team killed... but it came close.

Hostage Negotiation 101. Don't fucking call a hostage on their  
cell phone when there's a chance the bloody hostage taker  
doesn't know he's got a federal hostage. Especially if he's an  
armed hostage. And you don't know whether the hostage taker  
has an itchy trigger finger. This class is pass/fail, boys and  
girls. If you get the hostages killed asshole, you fail.

There wasn't a damn thing I could do. I wasn't from Illinois. I  
was taking a course with their SWAT team guys when the call  
came in. Just call me JAFO. I heard later that her partner  
ended up in the psyche ward for a while. Considering  
everything I've heard since, I'm more surprised that they let  
him out.

I thought that was the last I'd ever see of her. I kicked my ass  
for weeks afterwards for not making some kind of move at the  
time. You know. Introduced myself, asked her to  
dinner...proposed. The usual. I even spent some time lurking  
outside the FBI building hoping to run into her. Sweeney  
thought it was hilarious until three loony tunes tried to follow  
us home.

It's a scary thing, the minds of madmen and lunatics. We didn't  
even know they were there. Not until they botched placing the  
tracking device. A tracking device. Can you frigging believe it?  
Haven't these fruit-loops heard of the constitution? They  
scream loud enough when they think their own rights are being  
violated. Guess they figure it somehow doesn't apply to them.  
Them being the good and righteous warriors and all that  
bullshit. Christ, I hate fanatics.

So Sweeney had the short one handcuffed to the car door.  
Blondie is flat on his face with Sweeney on his back and I  
made the mistake of thinking I had the sane one of the lot.  
Except he's gone stark raving bonkers. I've got his right arm in  
a wristlock and a Half- Nelson on his left and he's still  
fighting. The handcuffed one is hollering "I won't let you hurt  
her again, I won't let you hurt her." over and over. Meanwhile,  
my guy is howling "Where is she? Where is she?" Like I have  
a fucking clue what he's talking about. That's when the cavalry  
showed up.

For the bad guys.

I remember thinking a train had hit me. I'm face down on the  
car hood trying to remind my lungs how to breath when I see  
Sweeney go flying back to land flat on his ass. Shortie kicks  
out at my partner as he goes. Luckily he missed and got  
Blondie instead. Next thing I know, I'm wearing handcuffs,  
Sweeney is glaring at me as he lands like a beached trout next  
to me and Blondie and Shortie are smacking each other around  
like a couple of cat-fighting 13-year old girls.

We went from Starsky and Hutch to Larry, Curly and Moe in  
about five minutes. I'd have laughed if I'd thought Sweeney  
would forgive me.

It stopped being funny when I saw the photographs. Those  
assholes had had us under surveillance almost from the first  
day I started...ummm...lurking. They had photos, file dossiers  
on both of us and even a wiretap on my phone. That's when I  
started to get seriously creeped out. Whoever their rescuer was,  
he was FBI. I'd seen the badge on his barrel chest just before  
he tried to rearrange my teeth. What these three yahoos had  
done was flat out illegal. He had to know that.

So why were Sweeney and I the ones wearing police issue  
bracelets?

I figure it's a bad sign when the FBI starts acting like the CIA.

Sweeney's face had gone absolutely still. He's got the kind of  
features that make him look seriously dangerous when he does  
that. Deranged is how one cop put it. I've seen more than one  
piece of gutter slime take one look and carefully place his gun  
on the ground. They usually kick it several feet away for good  
measure.

I'm the only one who knows that face usually means he thinks  
we are both gonna die.

We had carefully twisted around and slid off the car hood to  
face the enemy on our feet. It's a dumb reaction, I know. Dead  
is dead. But I'll be damned if I'll go out with a bullet in the  
back of the head if I've got anything to say about it. The  
bastard can look me in the eye when he pulls the trigger.

He was a decade older and wearing a suit that said he'd been  
behind a desk for a hell of a long time. One look at his eyes,  
though, and I was very careful about how I took my next  
breath. Whatever else this man was, it wasn't the cop looking  
me over with assessing brown eyes. It was a soldier.

Say what you want about trigger-happy cops, the fact is that  
most of us are taught to see civilians when we look at people.  
Human beings who we are supposed to protect. The innocent  
until proven guilty. But where we see civilians, soldiers see  
enemies.

And as every good soldier knows, the only safe enemy is a  
dead one.

When Blondie mentioned that I had been in Illinois, I think I  
began to look very very safe. That's when her partner showed  
up. Blondie fucking had his cell phone number on speed dial.

Who the hell were these people? I mean, Christ! I just wanted  
to ask the woman for a date.

"Agent Mulder."

"Sir?"

"Do you know these men?"

Hazel eyes gave both of us the once over.

"No sir."

Soldier Boy handed over one of Blondie's photographs. I  
winced as I caught sight of it and Sweeney sighed. Somehow  
these twits had captured the one and only time I'd gone over to  
Dana Scully's home. And yes, I chickened out. I figured  
showing up at her door might give her the wrong impression. I  
wanted to ask her to dinner, not scare the living daylights out  
of her.

"Next time you want to ask out an FBI agent, partner, you are  
on your own."

For the record, Sweeney couldn't whisper his way out of a  
paper bag. Everybody froze. Then one of the three Stooges  
started to snicker. I'm sure I've been more embarrassed in my  
life. I could swear there were a few times in high school...I just  
could not remember any. From the burn, even my ears were  
turning red. The only way it could get worse would be if...

"Mulder?"

Yep. That would be it.

I'll say this for her. She is one cool customer. Didn't even bat  
an eye. Just moved her hand closer to her weapon and tipped a  
curious eyebrow at her partner. Remembered to keep her line  
of fire clear too. I kept very still. Wouldn't want to have to  
explain to the grandchildren why Grandma shot Grandpa.

From the cool expression on her partner's face I was probably  
getting safer by the minute, but I couldn't stop the grin I knew  
was spreading across my face. No doubt about it. She was my  
kind of woman.

There was a bit of confusion as to who got to unhandcuff who.  
I was wearing Soldier Boy's, Shortie was wearing mine and  
Sweeney-who may one day forgive me for this - was wearing  
his own. However, there are times when the unspoken male  
code of honor has it's benefits. None of them goofed on me.

I don't actually know if she ever got an explanation. After a  
general collection of assorted mumblings and stumblings,  
everyone sort of scattered. If I'd been her, I would have  
thought it strange. But she just handed her partner an autopsy  
report. Business as usual for the FBI, I guess.

It wasn't hard to introduce myself after that. Get myself  
assigned to a case with weird stuff going on, call to make sure  
her partner was out of the office and make a quick stop to ask  
her advice. Case closed. A thank-you lunch was only fair,  
wasn't it?

Damn if that woman doesn't get a lot of cell phone calls  
though. Her partner alone called four times in the run of an  
hour. I'd have thought he was jealous, except the fact she was  
with me never came up. At the time, I figured it was a good  
sign. Evidence that she kept her personal relationships separate  
from her relationship with her partner. Yeah. Right.

Remind me to double check whether it really does say  
Detective on my badge and ID. Because for someone whose  
life begins with "c" and ends with "p", I didn't have a clue.

I took her out to dinner and we spent the night comparing the  
bad habits of our partners. We went to the movies and she ran  
out halfway through because something in the plotline jogged a  
memory and she needed a lift back to the morgue. I rented the  
most nauseating chick flick I could find and found out three  
days later that she stood me up because some emergency room  
doctor was playing connect the bullet holes on her body.

Are you beginning to get the picture?

That was when I started thinking that maybe she was sleeping  
with her partner. I mean, hell, I find out from the goddamm  
FBI switchboard that she's in the hospital. She doesn't think to  
call me once she's conscious. And her partner is the one who  
drove her home. So she has to be sleeping with him. Right?  
And you know what Sweeney asked me?

The asshole asked if it mattered.

Damn it. I can fight another man. But how the hell do you fight  
a woman's job? They get seriously pissed when you ask them  
to quit. I mean I get it. She's a career woman. Her job is  
important to her. The fact that she gets shot at more than a  
combat marine is a problem. Especially if she's planning on  
having kids at anytime. But that's the fault of her asshole  
partner. I mean, what the hell is he doing dragging his partner  
into situations like those?

She's loyal to her partner. So long as he keeps going with these  
suicide quests of his, she'll keep following along, guarding his  
back, until one day they both go down. Her life...

Christ, she doesn't have a life. It's no wonder she's sleeping  
with him. He's consumed everything else around her until all  
she can see is him. He's made a prison out of her sense of duty,  
her loyalty, her need to make a difference. I can see it. All I  
have to do is find a way to show it to her. Give her a sense of  
balance. A family.

Me.

If I wasn't so pissed at him, I'd have flinched at the sadness in  
Sweeney's eyes as he watched me tell him this. His fingers  
made slow circles on the table and he took a swallow of his  
beer before finally looking at me. God, I wanted to run. I didn't  
want to hear this. I didn't want to hear him tell me it was never  
going to happen. I didn't want to hear the reasons why.

"Why her?"

What did he mean, why her? Hadn't he been paying attention?  
She was perfect. Everything I wanted in a woman.

Sweeney just closed his eyes and grimaced. Then he seriously  
freaked me out.

"If I was a woman, would you sleep with me?"

JesusMaryandJosephAndAllTheSaintsPreserveUs. He did not  
just ask me that. SHIT. He did not just ask me that. What do I  
say now?

"Fuck no."

The asshole knew better than to smile at me. I gave serious  
contemplation to introducing my knuckles to his teeth. What  
the fuck did he want from me?

"Why not?"

Why not? He had the nerve to ask me why not? Because he  
talked too much. That's why not. Because he was a Red Sox  
fan. Because he'd drag me to jazz festivals and humiliate me at  
the summer fair by winning me the teddy bear. Why not? Why  
not? Because he was my fucking partner, that's why not.

He watched my back. We shared cold coffee on stakeouts and  
he always knew what donut to buy me. He pissed me off by  
volunteering for the craziest cases but made it up to me by  
doing more than his fair share of the paperwork. He was the  
one I wanted at my back when we had to go into some deserted  
warehouse in the middle of nowhere and he's the one who will  
see the bad guys in hell if I ever walk into the wrong end of a  
bullet.

He was my goddamn partner. I'd lose too much if he was a  
wom...

The asshole just looked at me as if he hadn't torn apart my  
world, my understanding of myself and swallowed another  
mouthful of beer. That little voice, the one we never listen too,  
kept screaming at me to grab my gun and run. Leave before he  
said something else. Said something that would force me to see  
the things I never thought of...and the things that could never  
be.

I should have known better. Bastard always has to have the last  
word.

"Now ask me if I'd sleep with you, if you were a woman. "

The sun will be a fucking snowball before I ever ask that  
question. Not in this lifetime, or any other.

I don't want to know.

It would hurt too much.

-The End- 


End file.
